


Allegro affettuoso

by almosthello, happinesssdeceit (crescenttwins)



Series: the prince and the paramour [1]
Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anal Sex, Asteria Formal Attire Sorey, Asteria Mikleo (Idol), Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Glove Kink, Illustrated, M/M, Nipple Play, Nonsense, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Victorian Embarrassment, Waltzing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 06:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11412471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almosthello/pseuds/almosthello, https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescenttwins/pseuds/happinesssdeceit
Summary: It’s the night for the Prince Sorey to find his betrothed, and Mikleo's singing group is hired to be the night’s entertainment.





	Allegro affettuoso

**Author's Note:**

> almosthello: I take full responsibility for all of this (minus the glove kink)  
> happinesssdeceit: f i n a l l y
> 
> (in which sleep deprivation and fever prompts another ~~questionable~~ collab)
> 
> \----
> 
> Title is from [Schumann: Piano Concerto In A Minor, Op.54 - 1. Allegro affettuoso](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZISmfdbqu0I)!
> 
> Clicking on any of the art will bring you to almosthello's art on Twitter! Please give her lots of love there as well!

Mikleo lets his fingers brush past the prince’s coat as he reaches for a drink, accepting the thin stemmed glass from an attendant with a smile. When he brings it up for a sip, the liquid catches the bright gleam coming off of the prince’s gold coat buttons. The room is steeped in luxury, and every attendee is weighed down by not only the heft of their jewels but the unending concern over their status.

It’s barbaric, flesh on display to enchant and to wed a man (a prince, Mikleo corrects mentally), who will always prioritize the country over your relationship. He takes another sip of the rich drink, lips twitching into a smile unwittingly when he catches the prince watching him again. He inclines his head, stepping away to escape the stifling heat of the ballroom. 

The balcony is too obvious, occupied by lovers and doomed trysts, so instead Mikleo leaves for the service corridor that he had been brought through earlier that evening. His arrival gets him a second glance from the servers, but they leave him be: his suit is a brightly colored thing, garish and cheap in comparison to the nobles this party catered to. The gold ropes that accent his cape feel heavy; the matching fringe and bright blue flower pinned to his shoulders unnecessarily eye-catching-- an outfit meant to mimic but never insult their patrons, a costume worn by a group of singers who live off of the adoration of the rich.

He stretches before leaning against the wall, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment. _The adoration of the rich_ is certainly how they make their living, but the prince’s eyes had been lingering on him for most of the night. The man’s attention wasn’t unpleasant, Mikleo thinks, the back of his neck flushing. 

It was just unexpected, because Mikleo’s flirtatious shimmy around the prince during his group’s performance had been normal-- a flourish to remind everyone who the guest of honor was. Except they had made eye contact, and that intense green had made Mikleo’s steps falter for a moment before he moved away, made his next vocals slightly breathier than normal.

 _Embarrassing_ , Mikleo thinks, lets out a huff of air. He was a professional, and the prince wasn’t some noble to flounce off with because he had nice eyes for-- 

There’s noise near the entrance of the corridor, and Mikleo opens his eyes irritably only to startle backwards at the sight of the prince in front of him. 

The prince catches his wrist to steady him, gloved fingers carefully wrapped around his own, and for a moment Mikleo wonders what the man’s bare fingers would feel like against his. He pulls his arm away quickly, brushing away the heat of contact. 

“Your highness,” he greets after a long pause.

“Sorey,” the prince corrects casually, and then, more concerned, “are you unwell?” His eyes are scanning Mikleo’s body, dipping to and lingering on the gap between his coat and his trousers where tight black fabric clings to the planes of Mikleo’s abdomen. The focus takes Mikleo’s breath for a moment, and he coughs to bring the other male’s eyes up to his face.

“I’m fine,” Mikleo says. He swallows at the smile he gets in return, continues, “What are you doing here, your highness?”

“Sorey,” the prince corrects again. “I saw you leave earlier, and wanted to be certain you were well.” There’s something genuine about his manner despite the awkwardly formal words that makes Mikleo respond more honestly than he normally would.

“I just needed a moment,” Mikleo says, stepping to the side to put more distance between them. There’s a quiet thrill under his skin when he notices the prin-- notices Sorey lean forward in response, bringing them close again. He tamps down that feeling, breathes out and lets his work smile rise on his face. “But what is the...esteemed prince lingering here for? Your ballroom is filled with many people looking forward to speaking with you.”

Something flickers in Sorey’s gaze for a moment, there and gone, and then the prince smiles at him slowly, warm. “It would be wrong not to assist someone who was ill.”

“That is very...kind of you,” Mikleo says, licking his dry lips. Sorey leans forward still, and Mikleo would laugh at himself if he were an observer. A ball for a prince to find his marriage partner, and a mere musician dreams of stealing him away for-- an hour, a night? He shakes the thought from his head, gestures back into the ballroom. “Then we should return.”

Sorey blinks at him, a bit taken aback. A moment later he sets his jaw and nods, and Mikleo follows Sorey back into the ballroom, mixing in with the servants to move away from the prince’s side. He lifts another glass of sparkling liquid from a nearby tray, tucking himself against the wall when he has moved far enough. He nods to the members of his singing group as they pass him, their matched clothing mingling with the nobility.

The night continues to pass with the horrifying crush of expensive perfumes and gilded clothing that revolves around the dance floor. The amount of bare skin on display makes part of Mikleo flush, the impropriety of letting another touch you without the barrier of cloth--

Mikleo grasps the exposed skin above his gloves, a gap before his costume’s coat sleeve begins. He lets himself wonder what would happen if Sorey had reached a little higher to steady him, what the other’s gloves would have felt like on his bare skin. It’s indulgent, and Mikleo swallows uneasily around the dryness in his mouth. He resettles against the wall comfortably, intending to wait out the rest of his night’s obligation. 

When the dancers begin to sway slowly, couples moving out of the more complex dances and circuits that had dominated the earlier evening, Mikleo sets his glass on an empty tray and moves out onto the balcony. It’s empty, trysts vanished to bedrooms and gardens and the rumors of the next day. The night air is refreshing, empty of pretense, and Mikleo lets himself sigh for the first time. Rolling his shoulders, he stares out at the night sky, stars already in full view.

The ball cannot end before the prince chooses a partner, even if the moon sets and the sun begins to brighten the sky again. It’s a foolish tradition, one of the many that their society clings to, and Mikleo breathes out. Soon enough the dashing prince will be gone, pulling some socialite into his bed and his wedlock, and they will all be free to escape into the night. There’s a foolish twinge of something Mikleo refuses to name in his chest, something that scoffs at societal boundaries and reminds him of Sorey’s vibrant eyes, locked on his. 

The music gets louder, the balcony door propped open, and Mikleo barely hides the frown when he sees Sorey at the door, beaming at him.

“You haven’t danced at all tonight,” the prince scolds playfully.

“I danced around you,” Mikleo fires back, ears burning. A moment later he bites his lip, because of all the foolish things to do, arguing with the heir to the throne is surely one of them.

“Mm,” Sorey agrees, eyes glimmering in the light, “but you haven’t done any _proper_ dancing.” He holds a gloved hand to Mikleo. “You don’t know how?”

“I know how to dance,” Mikleo says, barely keeping his tone in check, “I am choosing not to.”

“Well, I am choosing to invite you to dance,” Sorey laughs, “and it would be rude of you to refuse, especially since you haven’t even given me your name.”

“It’s Mikleo.” Mikleo rolls his eyes, but accepts the prince’s hand. He stiffens in surprise when another hand is wrapped around his waist, resting in the small of his back. 

“We can dance out here,” Sorey says, “you’d be more comfortable with that, right?” The quarter-turn he leads them into is easy, practiced, and Mikleo curses his stumbling feet that have everything to do with surprise and nothing to do with embarrassment, or worse, _attraction_.

“It’s fine,” Mikleo says, a beat too late. 

The prince is kind enough not to comment, but instead looks into the distance. The silence is comfortable enough, until, “In the daylight, you can see the Mabinogio Ruins from here.”

Mikleo follows his line of sight without thinking. “I didn’t realize they were so close to the palace.” Perhaps he could convince his group to stay in town for a little longer-- who knew the next time they would be so close to the famous ruins, the next time they would have enough free income to justify lingering in a town where their work was done.

“One of the kingdom’s greatest treasures,” Sorey says, eyes still fixed in the distance before he shakes his head, turning back to Mikleo, “in the opinions of some, of course.”

“Anyone who doesn’t agree would be a fool,” Mikleo corrects, “Can you imagine the history that’s stored there? The sheer value of the knowledge that’s there, let alone the relics-- how much that is worth?”

“Access to the ruins are restricted,” the prince says, tone slightly cautious as he turns Mikleo once.

“Unsurprising, considering the havoc that would be wrought if looters had free reign,” Mikleo says. Still, the opportunity to even see the exterior, look at the way the moldings were placed, would be invaluable. “Even if they didn’t know the lore surrounding the Mabinogio Ruins, the wealth of the time wasn’t trivial.”

“You’re referring to the path to Camlann?” Sorey says, smiling at him.

Mikleo smiles genuinely at the prince for the first time that night. “Can you imagine, how much we could learn if those ruins were explored with care?”

“Want to go?” Sorey offers, bright, even as he leads them into a four-step that Mikleo is almost _certain_ does not match the beat of the music still playing in the ballroom.

Mikleo turns a disbelieving stare on his dance partner.

“Well, maybe not tonight,” Sorey agrees with a laugh.

“As much as I would love to, your nobility would riot if you abandoned them tonight,” Mikleo says, soft. 

“They would assume I found a partner,” Sorey corrects imperiously, an obnoxiously wide grin on his face. “And they wouldn’t be wrong.” There’s heat in his voice, a flirtatiousness that makes Mikleo want to press closer and back away at once.

“An adventuring partner,” Mikleo scoffs. He’s careful not to tread on Sorey’s toes, now that he has some idea of the dance they’re following. “A prince wouldn’t be bored, trekking through the ruins?”

“I would be delighted to have a partner,” Sorey says, and then Mikleo’s view skews. It takes him a moment to recalibrate, to blink up at Sorey’s face and realize he is supported only by a warm hand on his back and his fingers in the prince’s. The prince’s face is distractingly close, close enough that Mikleo can feel their breath mingle. “Perhaps not just one for adventures?” Sorey says, and then pulls Mikleo up, as smoothly as he had dipped him. His hand lingers on Mikleo’s back while he brushes gloved knuckles with his smiling lips.

[ ](https://twitter.com/i/moments/883154356274462721)

Mikleo’s face flushes, because he is not a _woman_ , but he allows the prince to keep him close. He has to tip his head up to look at Sorey, and it startles him for a moment at how much larger the prince’s frame is. There’s heat radiating from where Sorey’s hand is resting on his back, something that makes his heart race and him want to do foolish things.

He’s going to say no. He needs to say no, because Sorey, as alluring as he is, is a prince. Mikleo has been in towns where they would hunt those who dare reach so far above their station, never mind that the churning crowd in the ballroom are vying for this ridiculous man’s hand in marriage.

But before he can say anything, Sorey’s hand slips, brushing against the gap of skin on Mikleo’s forearm, and the palm of his gloves are damp. The cloth is as soft and warm as he imagined, but it’s moist with sweat. Sorey removes his hand quickly, clumsily, and Mikleo-- 

Mikleo looks at him, and his cheerful smile and his sweaty palms and his lips where a nervous babble is escaping. Looks at how his hand is ruffling his coiffed brown hair into a curly mess, eyes darting to meet Mikleo’s own every few moments, as though he loathes to look away.

He’s ridiculously charming, Mikleo thinks, charming enough to make people who have never met him petition for his love, to make cities celebrate his arrival, to make an entire continent love him. And in the face of that, how could Mikleo even begin to deny him? Why would he want to?

Mikleo reaches forward, lets his gloved fingers lace with Sorey’s own, and agrees, “Perhaps not only for adventures.” Every syllable is heavy on his tongue, and he can see each one strike Sorey, disbelief and something very lovely entering his gaze.

Sorey brings Mikleo’s hand to his mouth, sets his teeth lightly on the first knuckle. “Mine?” 

It’s startling to hear the word so plainly. It takes a moment before Mikleo scoffs, but the sound is frustratingly fond. “Well, not if you’re not able to figure it out from here.”

“I can,” Sorey says, defiant but grinning, tugging Mikleo around the balcony and farther from the ballroom. “I mean, I will!” 

The pounding in his chest is distracting, and Mikleo is a bit lightheaded. “Good,” he says, “great.”

“Wonderful,” Sorey corrects, like a brat, and Mikleo feels his lips twitch into a smile. “You’re wonderful.”

“You’ve known me all of one conversation,” Mikleo says. They enter the palace from a hidden entrance, guards saluting and averting their eyes as the pair passes.

“Two,” Sorey says, teasing but words slow, “but we have time for many more.” He pushes open a large pair of doors, and Mikleo hopes the ragged breath he takes is mistaken for a gasp at the opulent interior. 

It’s a room out of a storybook-- rich blue drapes covering the far wall, undoubtedly covering the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that are so adored by the wealthy. He barely registers the sound of Sorey shutting the door as he steps inside. 

The rug beneath them spans the the floor, thick and soft enough he can feel it even through his shoes. A sparkling chandelier in the center of the room sends sparkles of light across the room, making the tall candelabras near the bed defunct, despite the flames that burned cheerfully atop the long candles; there are shelves laden with books on every wall, tomes of knowledge that make Mikleo’s fingers itch. He pulls his eyes away from the shelves when he notices Sorey watching him, forcing them to the centerpiece of the room.

The bed itself is large, large enough that Mikleo and Sorey could spread out atop it and never touch. It’s covered with pillows and thin blankets, gauzy mosquito nets hanging around the space, and heavier curtains to draw around it, to hide the bed’s occupants from prying eyes.

Heat pools in Mikleo’s belly, and he turns when the prince’s hand curls around his hip, warm even through the fabric. The hand pulls him to face Sorey, and Mikleo lets his gloved hand slide across the baubles that fastened Sorey’s cape to his suit jacket. 

Sorey catches his hand, still smiling as he presses his lips to the cloth, and whispers, _“The summer fled / Into the arms of autumn / Time lost to the the dreams of youth / But I will remember you_ , wasn’t it?”

Mikleo jerks back, startled, and groans a bit at his lyrics. “Why did you remember that song?”

“They were your first words to me!” Sorey defends, laughing, “How could I forget them?”

“They’re _embarrassing_ ,” Mikleo asserts, “and besides that, your voice suits them far too well.” He brushes his free fingers along the red feathers that dangle off of the prince’s ear cuffs, letting his fingertips barely rub against the shell of Sorey’s ear. 

“Hmm,” Sorey says, “but I’d love to hear you sing again?” He slides one hand from Mikleo’s hip to his lower back. The other comes up to flick the feathers fastened to Mikleo’s own shoulder, a bright teal plumage pinned beneath a matching rose. “We match,” he grins.

“Our clothing does,” Mikleo agrees, and steps forward to press his body along Sorey’s, “but I wonder if _we_ do as well?” He licks his lips, pleased when the prince’s eyes drop to his mouth.

Sorey grasps his chin, tilting his head upwards gently, and leans close, close enough that Mikleo can feel his breath on his lips. “May I have a kiss?“ He says, sweet, but there’s a tension around his eyes, something that makes Mikleo set his lips on the edge of Sorey’s jaw, nip him lightly. The prince’s body shudders against him, warm, and Mikleo looks up into a kiss, Sorey’s lips crashing against his, messy before gentling. 

When Sorey pulls away, Mikleo’s lips feel tender. The prince’s breath is ragged, face flushed and startlingly open, and--

“Was that okay--” the prince says, words a disorganized rumble, “I mean, of course not, you look-- bruised, and--” His eyes are diverted to the side, hand ruffling his own hair, and Mikleo watches the feathers bounce for a moment.

Mikleo would laugh if he wasn’t half-hard and in the prince’s _bedroom_ , for goodness’ sake. Instead, he lifts a hand to turn Sorey’s face in return, something in him thrilling when Sorey allows him the motion, and leans up to press his lips to Sorey’s again. 

“I like this,” Mikleo says, “but we haven’t come to your room to trade kisses like children, I hope.”

“If you were kissing people like this as a child,” Sorey grumbles, but moves towards the bed, taking off his dress boots and dropping them at the edge of the carpet. He seats himself on the bed, and watches Mikleo patiently as the singer follows his lead, stepping closer. Moving to stand between Sorey’s spread legs is easy, easier still to lean down and brush his lips against the seated prince’s, to lick against the seam of his lips and let their breaths mingle.

“Do you think I was,” Mikleo says, as he loosens the tie holding his cape to his short jacket. 

Sorey cups Mikleo’s hands, stilling them, and says petulantly, “That sounds like a trick question,” while he pulls Mikleo in for another kiss, a searing thing that makes electricity spark down Mikleo’s back. It’s enough that he thinks nothing of it when one of Sorey’s hands reach to stroke his back, the other catching him tightly around the waist, and in the next breath his back hits the bed sheets, Sorey looming over him.

Laughing, Mikleo continues unweaving the knot holding his cape in place. “So impatient.”

A kiss is pressed to Mikleo’s jaw, Sorey’s gloved fingers slipping against his abdomen against skin tight cloth. “I’m glad you’re laughing,” Sorey murmurs against him. He sits up, smiling, even as his eyes catch on the fastenings at his throat. The words fall flat when his gloves trace Mikleo’s jaw, catch lightly on the edge of his collar and and the tie at his throat.

The touch on Mikleo’s bare skin makes him feel warm, like his skin is too tight. Mikleo could nudge the prince with his knees, twist to press a breathy kiss to the exposed skin above Sorey’s glove. It’s easier to look up at the prince, to wait and see if Sorey will cross this boundary first-- a singer in the bed of a prince, instead of the nobility that had tried to lure him. It’s scandalous, something that will stain Sorey’s future reign with laughter under the breath; something that will raise Mikleo’s value, the singer who seduced and bedded a prince. 

Sorey has more to lose; Mikleo lifts his chin when Sorey meets his eyes. 

The prince groans at Mikleo’s exposed neck, curls over him to kiss his jawline and then slides a suckling kiss onto Mikleo’s pulse point. The contact feels blisteringly hot, and Mikleo moves his fingers against Sorey’s chest, flicking open the clasps under the panel of shining gold cloth. When Mikleo swallows, it sounds thunderous in his ears, and arousal flickers up his spine, hot enough that he wonders that Sorey can’t feel it. It makes his breath come fast, makes him think _run_ , because this isn’t some noble’s whimsical dalliance, it doesn’t feel that way, not with Sorey’s gloves undoing the buttons of Mikleo’s jacket with careful fingers, not with Sorey’s intense focus that feels like a touch, not with the kiss Mikleo is gasping into.

Then, abruptly, it ends, Sorey backing up and dropping to the bed beside him, fingers curling around Mikleo’s own, smiling. He presses a kiss to Mikleo’s wrist. He’s slow when he reaches to pull the glove off, never breaking eye contact, and Mikleo allows it. Allows his pale hand to be exposed to the air, for Sorey to lean down and brush a kiss against the bare knuckles. The contact makes him flush, something Mikleo would be embarrassed by except for the matching color in Sorey’s face.

Sorey presses a kiss to Mikleo’s bare wrist, smiles against it, and sits back. “I’d,” he says, still smiling, “better turn the lights down, or someone will come in to check on us.” The heat that curls in Mikleo’s belly is startling in its strength, enough that he undoes the ribbon at his throat while Sorey turns off the chandelier and begins to douse the candles at the far side of the room. His coat is open, hanging off his shoulders, and he loosens the buttons of his collar. 

When Sorey returns, his own jacket hanging half-open from Mikleo’s wandering fingers, he freezes at the edge of the bed, taking in the exposed skin at Mikleo’s throat. The sound that escapes him makes Mikleo shudder, and Sorey pulls some the privacy curtains down around the bed, light filtered through thick cloth and the gaps in the curtain where Sorey is entering.

“You’re lovely,” Sorey blurts, leans forward to press his lips against Mikleo’s, body abruptly close. The heat of his body brings the world into dizzying focus, the hardness pressed against Mikleo’s own startling and flattering. Mikleo arches against it, and when Sorey begins to back away in surprise, he curls his fingers-- gloved and bare alike-- into brown hair and pulls the prince back into a bruising kiss, his legs spreading and curling around Sorey’s hips to press their crotches together again and again. 

Warmth is racing through Mikleo’s face, a flush at his own audacity, but he licks against Sorey’s lips and tongue. He doesn’t know what he will do if Sorey pulls away-- what the trembling in his limbs will translate into. A moan escapes his lips when he feels Sorey tug his shirt from where it is tucked, a gloved hand slipping under the black fabric to stroke his belly with warm palms. The sensation tickles, and Mikleo breaks the kiss to snort a giggle into Sorey’s cheek. 

Sorey laughs when Mikleo tries to tickle him in turn, shifting backwards before Mikleo locks his legs around the other male’s hips, pulling him back again. “I had wondered if you would sing for me again,” Sorey says, delighted, brushing Mikleo’s bangs out of his face, cupping his cheek, “but this might be better?” He brings his free hand to his lips, closing his teeth around the fingertip of his glove to tug it off. The flush on his cheeks is accompanied by a rasp in his tone, and he curls his bare hand around Mikleo’s exposed hip. “Will you sing for me here, instead?”

“Between your sheets,” Mikleo says, his lips twitching upwards, “with you as my accompaniment?” It doesn’t sounds as mocking as he’d like, his tone a shade too heated.

Sorey blinks at him, a beat slow, and then grins, letting his bare fingers slide across Mikleo’s belly. The sensation makes Mikleo go hazy with heat. Sorey, against his ear, breathes, “I’d like that.” His hand moves further still, brushing against Mikleo’s ribs carefully this time, and then higher, pushing the fabric of Mikleo’s shirt up. 

When his fingers slide against Mikleo’s nipple, Mikleo inhales sharply, arching into Sorey’s touch. It pauses, drawing away, and before the sob escapes his lips, Sorey is kissing him, slow and deep, eyes so intensely focused on him that Mikleo shudders. In the low light, his eyes look darker, pupils blown and his mouth is consuming.

And then Sorey’s hands are on his chest, one gloved and one bare, fingers circling the delicate nubs. His thigh is between Mikleo’s own, and when Mikleo chases Sorey’s touch, the added pressure against his length makes him sob. 

“Mikleo,” Sorey says, fingers gently teasing the singer’s nipples, “does this feel good?” His fingers are tangled in the fabric of Mikleo’s shirt, his eyes wide and fixated where he’s rubbing them. 

He wants to laugh at the question, but Sorey gently scrapes his fingernail over a nipple and the sound comes out a strangled moan instead. It’s _embarrassing,_ and Mikleo turns his head, shutting his eyes as the sensation ravages his body, as he realizes he’s hard and half dressed and the Sorey’s hands are up against him, heavy and warm. 

Sorey pulls his hands away, and the sharp panicked inhale that Mikleo makes is short lived; the prince is groaning, frustrated as he strips away his second glove with his teeth, his already bare hand reaching to cup Mikleo’s face. Wickedly, Mikleo lets his mouth drop open, catches Sorey’s thumb between his lips when the prince caresses his face. He licks the fingertip, suckling it lightly as he watches Sorey’s movements stutter to a stop, transfixed by this point of contact. 

When Mikleo scrapes the digit lightly with his teeth, Sorey bites back a wild sound, reaching to tug Mikleo up and pull the shirt off his frame, to shove Mikleo’s loose clothing off the bed as he leans down, fastens his mouth around one of Mikleo’s nipples. He stares at Mikleo as he suckles the nub, wet heat and pressure making Mikleo fix his teeth more firmly against Sorey’s finger in his mouth, making Mikleo’s hips jerk up to seek friction against Sorey’s abdomen. 

Then Sorey’s hand is against his cock, rubbing him through his pants, and Mikleo abruptly realizes the fact that he’s rutting up against the prince, sucking on his finger on the day Sorey was supposed to find a bride, and he flushes hard enough that he can feel the heat in his face. Sorey looks up at him, lips still curved around Mikleo’s nipple, and pulls back.

He brushes a thumb over the still wet nub, the rasp of dry skin making Mikleo lose focus for a moment, and says, “What’s wrong?”

Mikleo exhales, opens his mouth for Sorey to withdraw his thumb, and the wet digit is brushed along his cheekbone, a strange comfort. His cheeks are warm enough that he thinks he might burst into flames at the embarrassment, but he forces himself to look at Sorey and say, “You were supposed to find your marriage partner at the ball today.”

“Mm,” Sorey agrees, still stroking his cheek, “I was.” His eyes are bright, the green seeming to glow in the low light.

“This is inappropriate,” Mikleo says, starting to feel like a fool. 

“Mikleo,” Sorey says, learning down for a kiss, “you want this?” He keeps Mikleo’s hips pinned against the bed with his own, their clothed crotches coming into contact as the singer squirms beneath him. The contact of their lips is steady, straight forward, and frighteningly chaste. It quiets part of Mikleo’s heart, makes him selfish enough to claim this night, consequences be damned.

When Sorey pulls away, eyes searching Mikleo’s face, there must be something that shows in his face, because the grin that curls over Sorey’s lips is impish and quick. “I do,” Mikleo says, because Sorey deserves to hear it, and the sound of delight the other makes is smothered by the enthusiastic kiss he gives. 

Sorey’s hands brush against Mikleo’s face, against his shoulders, move down until their fingers are laced together. The prince sits up, drags their joined hands up to press a kiss onto Mikleo’s bare wrist, asks, “Take your other glove off?”

“If you take off your jacket and shirt,” Mikleo bargains, and is gratified to see the speed at which Sorey strips off the clothing, dropping it to the side. He tugs off his glove, and Sorey’s hands are tight around the curve of his hips, bare and warm. 

“No more gloves,” Sorey says, sweet, “what a scandal.” He tugs Mikleo towards him, laughing, and Mikleo goes.

“But there are more scandalous things to come, aren’t there?” Mikleo says, kneeling as he straddles Sorey’s lap. His costume’s pants are stretched tight across his crotch, the outline of his hard cock on display if the prince only looks; and if there were any embarrassment or judgment in Sorey’s eyes, Mikleo would crumble away, twist and vanish into the night. But there isn’t-- nothing but the same steady heat and happiness that has saturated their interactions until this point. 

Sorey pulls him down into a kiss, into his lap, and the feeling of Sorey’s hard cock underneath him makes Mikleo moan into the kiss. It’s instinctive to grind against Sorey, and Sorey goes taut with tension, his muscles locking for the briefest moment before surging into motion. A hand is splayed out across Mikleo’s back, and the prince _dips_ him, laying him out on the bedsheets. 

It is terribly, wonderfully distracting to have Sorey’s bare fingertips moving along his skin, slick and gentle. His caresses are frustrating, teasing things that make Mikleo want to arch up and feel his entire hand; make Mikleo want to whimper and drag Sorey down into a kiss, to press their skin together until they fall apart. He kisses Sorey’s shoulder, dizzy enough that he can’t think to aim for Sorey’s mouth, licks along the bone until he feels Sorey chuckle raggedly against him. 

Mikleo pants when Sorey runs his hands over his chest, leans down to lick a nipple before unfastening Mikleo’s trousers. The prince struggles with the buckled straps, and Mikleo reaches down to assist him, their fingers tangling as they finally open the fastenings. Sorey pulls off of Mikleo, tugging the pants over his hips and knees, careful to pull them over Mikleo’s ankles before dropping them on the floor, and he looks so proud of himself that Mikleo barely manages to stifle the giggle.

Sorey, glancing up at the sound, pouts. “Why are you laughing at me,” he complains, even as he climbs back onto the bed, settling himself between Mikleo’s legs. He presses a kiss to Mikleo’s jaw even as he lets a hand tease circles on Mikleo’s chest. 

Mikleo’s curls a bare leg around Sorey’s waist, pressing his cock against the button fastenings of Sorey’s own trousers. Fingers slipping past the waistband, he says, “You’re just going to leave these on?”

Sorey laughs in delight, thrusting his hips forward until their dicks are sliding against one another, clothing doing nothing to restrain the heat. “I didn’t think you’d let me,” he confesses against Mikleo’s hair.

Mikleo flushes, a mixture of shame and arousal curling up his spine as the prince rocks against him. “You--”

“I’m sorry,” Sorey says, brushing a kiss against Mikleo’s ear, “that was--”

“You were--”

“You’re _lovely_ ,” Sorey says, “and you could have had anyone you wanted in that room.” He laughs, a bit sheepishly, “I thought you only said yes because I was the prince.”

Mikleo scoffs. “I’ve said no to royalty before.”

Everything freezes for a moment, before Sorey is groaning into his hair and grinding down on him harder, one hand snaking up Mikleo’s torso to tease his nipples, their legs tangling together and hips stuttering. “I don’t--” Sorey pants, “What am I supposed to do with that information, Mikleo.”

It’s easy to tug at the back of Sorey’s trousers, to command, “You should take off your pants.”

Sorey stills, a muffled sound escaping his lips, and then he is gone, stripping off his pants with an impatience that gives Mikleo a heady feeling. When Sorey vanishes beyond the privacy curtains, the singer spreads out on the bed, fingers teasing at the waistband of his underclothes before tugging them off, dropping them over the edge of the bed. 

A startled exhale from behind him makes Mikleo twist; he sees Sorey frozen at the foot of the bed, a bottle of oil in his hand and his eyes entranced by Mikleo’s bare skin. It’s difficult to be shameless under such scrutiny, but Mikleo is a performer first and foremost, so he sits up and beckons Sorey forward. 

The sound the prince makes would be described a growl, if Mikleo had any mind to name it. He doesn’t; he’s lightheaded, ridiculous considering how hard he’s breathing, pants hot against Sorey’s skin as the prince wraps a slick hand around his cock, stroking while he presses kisses into Mikleo’s jaw. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, with his legs, and through the haze he untangles his hands from the sheets below them to reach for Sorey’s cock. 

“Mikleo,” Sorey moans when he wraps his hands around the other male’s length, “Mikleo.” His hips stutter into Mikleo’s grip, the sensation dry but not unpleasant, and Mikleo presses a kiss to Sorey’s cheek when the prince’s eyes flutter closed. There’s moisture when Mikleo palms the head of Sorey’s cock, precum wetting his fingers and making the slide down smoother. 

“Sorey,” Mikleo finally responds, when Sorey twists his wrist in a way that makes his hips stutter forward. 

Sorey lifts his head, pupils blown and a thin ring of green shining, “Mikleo, can I?” He lets his fingers slip down, past the swell of Mikleo’s ass and against his hole. His fingers are slick, teasing around the entrance, and Mikleo shudders at the sensation before registering the question.

“It’s fine,” he says, finally, breathing as he feels Sorey’s fingers massage his hole. The sound that escapes his mouth when the first finger enters him is out of surprise at the stretch, not discomfort, and Sorey kisses his cheek, watching his face carefully. Mikleo can’t help but focus on the finger inside him, pushing shallowly to gently coax the muscle into relaxing. It makes him grit his teeth when Sorey adds a second.

“Mikleo,” Sorey says softly, fingers deep. The other male leans forward, and Mikleo opens his eyes when he feels the brush of Sorey’s hair across his chest. Sorey presses a kiss to one of Mikleo’s nipples, says, “May I?”

The strangled sound that Mikleo makes is an agreement, and Sorey smiles against his chest, scraping teeth over the sensitive bud in a way that makes Mikleo shudder and his fingers slide deeper. Sorey moves over to Mikleo’s other nipple, closing his lips around it and sucking lightly, tongue laving over the stiffening peak. 

It’s too much sensation at once, too much to track, and Mikleo’s heart races as his hips buck upwards, looking for any kind of friction, a strangled moan coming from his lips. Sorey sucks harder in response, and Mikleo’s body jerks, pushing his chest into that mouth. It stops for a moment, and the frustrated arousal coursing through Mikleo’s body makes his eyes burn in preparation for tears. And then Sorey’s lips are latched onto his other nipple, rolling the bud in his mouth, and Mikleo sobs in relief.

Sorey hums around his nipple, finally pulling off to press a kiss to Mikleo’s chin, and the absence of that intensity makes-- other sensations crash into him: the weight of Sorey’s arm against his side; the place where Sorey’s fingers are still buried within him; the heat of Sorey’s cock against his leg; the cotton sheets; and Sorey, watching him.

“Okay?” Sorey asks.

Mikleo nods, and Sorey pulls his fingers from Mikleo’s body. A breath passes, then two, and Mikleo sits up, fingers searching for the bottle of oil Sorey had brought in.

“Mikleo?”

The oil isn’t scented, but it’s high quality, thick enough that a small amount slicks Mikleo’s hand easily without dripping onto the bed. Sorey is still, careful as he watches Mikleo, and finally the singer reaches forward to slide a slicked hand up Sorey’s cock. The prince’s hips buck forward, and Mikleo lets him thrust into his hand, drizzling oil until the length is slick and ready.

“Well then,” Mikleo says, “How do you want me?” The sounds Sorey makes in response are indecent, and they make Mikleo laugh.

“You’re always laughing,” Sorey grumbles, but there’s relief in his eyes. He tips Mikleo back gently, sliding a roll of cloth beneath Mikleo’s hips before leaning down for a kiss. “I’m glad.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Mikleo says. He lifts a leg, a thought, and Sorey catches it, pulls it up to his shoulder until Mikleo feels exposed, on display. 

Sorey smiles at him again, presses the wet tip of his dick against Mikleo’s hole. Mikleo nods, and Sorey pushes into him, achingly slowly, fingers trembling against Mikleo’s hip and he lets out a shuddering breath against Mikleo’s leg. 

Mikleo buries his fingers in the bedsheets, pulling them tight as he struggles to breathe, to not clamp tightly around Sorey’s cock to prevent him from intruding further, because he _wants_ this. So he spreads his legs as best he can until Sorey bottoms out, until Sorey lets out a sound of pleasure into the air, and then he _moves_ , trying to draw the sounds from Sorey again. 

Sorey shudders when he feels Mikleo moving, opens his eyes and reaches to tangle their fingers together as he pulls out and rolls his hips to bury himself again. When Mikleo squeezes his hand, still uncomfortable, Sorey frowns the slightest amount and lifts Mikleo’s hips higher, his cock is still buried in Mikleo. He thrusts forward again.

Mikleo gasps, pleasure curling around his spine and his fingers scrabbling against Sorey’s arm, against his chest, and Sorey grins as he picks up the pace, fucking into Mikleo with sure thrusts of his hips. His cock is hot when it enters Mikleo, a slick heat that makes him moan Sorey’s name; Sorey pants Mikleo’s name in return, adjusting his speed and force according to the way Mikleo shudders beneath him, the sounds he makes when Sorey pushes into him. The sound of their skin coming together is indecent.

Mikleo clenches around Sorey’s cock, experimentally, and the strangled groan he receives makes him do it again. 

Sorey brushes a hand across Mikleo’s chest, fingers pinching the still moist nipples, and says, “Please.”

Mikleo lifts his hips higher and moans, watches Sorey’s hips stutter as he slides deeper into the singer. “...Please?”

“I want,” Sorey says, voice ragged and wet, his hips still rolling into Mikleo, “I want to feel you fall apart around me.” He leans forward to kiss Mikleo, almost chaste in comparison to the way their hips are coming together again and again.

The words are messy, embarrassing things that make Mikleo jerk up, sobbing, and the sensation of Sorey’s cock filling him and the prince’s shaking fingers around his dick and his nipple are enough to make him shudder into completion.

When he opens his eyes again, there is morning light filtering through the privacy curtains and he is curled up against a broad chest, an arm pulling him close. The room smells like sex, heavy enough that Mikleo wrinkles his nose, and he very gently extricates himself from underneath Sorey’s arm. 

Mikleo is naked, as expected, and if he’s lucky his clothing will still be on the floor where they dumped them, ready to be worn. When they aren’t immediately visible, he glances around the bed, finds a roll of cloth that unravels into the prince’s dress shirt. He slips it on, temporary covering until he can find his own clothes and is escorted for a formal reprimanding and then out of the palace. 

Still, there’s no one in the room yet, and it’s this that makes him give into a whimsy: a last kiss, to remember his prince charming. He crawls back over to where Sorey sleeps, leans down to press a chaste kiss against the half-smiling lips. 

“Mikleo,” Sorey says, words soft against his mouth, “marry me.”

Mikleo blinks slowly as he meets sleepy green eyes, certain that the morning has made his head foggy, because _there is no way that just came out of Sorey’s mouth_. He would suspect himself dreaming, except his mind would never come up with something so ridiculous on its own.

Except Sorey sits up, tugs Mikleo’s hand to him, laying kisses against his knuckles in a way that echoes last night’s pleasure, and repeats, “Marry me.”

Mikleo stares at him in disbelief, words trapped under his sleep heavy tongue.

“Marry me,” Sorey says again, delighted, “and we can travel to all the ruins in the land, explore them together and--”

Mikleo shoves his hand over Sorey’s mouth, face burning. He can see the corners of Sorey’s eyes crinkle in response before an arm is wrapped around his waist, pulling him up against the larger male. 

Their bare legs tangle together with the bedsheets, and Sorey hums happily under Mikleo’s hand, the melody familiar enough that Mikleo stills. It takes him an embarrassingly long moment to place the tune, the very words he had sung to Sorey the previous night.

“I’ll make you happy,” Sorey murmurs against Mikleo’s palm, “and chase your laughter for all my days.”

Something flutters in Mikleo’s chest, his face twitching into something ridiculous and fond, and he replaces his hand with his lips, determined to stop anything else from escaping.

 _Honestly_ , Mikleo huffs mentally, even as he feels Sorey laugh against his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Art (and beta'ing) by almosthello and fic by happinesssdeceit! If you enjoyed this, please leave a kudos and a comment? <3
> 
> All (future) doodles from this AU will be compiled in this [Twitter Moment](https://twitter.com/i/moments/883154356274462721) so don't forget to check it out!


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